Ena of the Poverty Point Culture, Tells of How He Gained His Knowledge of the Earth from his Elders

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My name is Ena of the Earth Rings, and I lived long ago—before cities rose on this land, before writing came, before even the wheel turned on these shores. But we were not without order. We were not without knowledge. I came from the people of Poverty Point, where the rivers bend like snakes and the land holds secrets in its curves. I was a planner, a speaker, a guide. My hands never held a weapon, but they moved a city.

I was born during a time when the world still felt new. The land fed us richly—fish from the rivers, birds from the sky, fruits from the trees. We didn’t need to wander as our ancestors did. Instead, we gathered, year after year, at the place where the land rose in great rings. I grew up running across those wide ridges, not knowing at first what they meant. But as I got older, I realized—they were not just hills. They were stories. They were maps.

My teachers showed me how the earth could be shaped—not just for shelter, but for meaning. They taught me how the sun rose differently with each season, how the moon cast shadows in rhythms. I watched the elders drive stakes into the soil, tracking the sky’s path day by day. And when they passed on, I took their place. I became the one who knew where the mounds should rise, where the center fires should burn, where the people should gather when the solstice returned.

You may not know this, but we built an entire city with no bricks, no stone, and no metal. Just dirt—carried one basket at a time. Thousands of us worked together. No kings, no armies, just understanding and tradition. We aligned our earth rings with the movements of the heavens. We traded with people far away—so far you’d measure it in hundreds of miles now. From the Great Lakes came shiny stones. From the Gulf came shells. They passed from hand to hand, camp to camp, reaching us like gifts from the wind.

When someone died, I helped decide where they would rest. The mounds were not just graves—they were gates. We buried our people with beads, with carvings, with tools, not to show wealth, but to carry memory into the next world. We told stories in every act—how to fish, how to sing, how to survive. Nothing was written, but nothing was forgotten. I carried those stories in my head, and I spoke them in circles, beneath the stars.

People today look at what we left and wonder who we were. They see bones, bits of pottery, strange stones shaped by ancient hands. They call us a mystery. But we weren’t a mystery to each other. We were builders. We were dreamers. We were people who saw the shape of the sky and made the earth match it.

I am Ena of the Earth Rings. I never rode a horse, never saw metal, never wrote a single word. But I helped shape a place that lasted for a thousand years. And when the wind sweeps across those rings now, I hope it still carries the sound of our songs, rising like smoke into the morning sun.

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